


behind blue eyes

by ketabat



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 3+1, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Image, Christmas Presents, Crybaby Billy Hargrove, Crying, Gen, Hugs, Light Angst, M/M, Men Crying, Nightmares, Post-Season/Series 03, Short One Shot, Soft Billy Hargrove, Supportive Joyce Byers, mild Self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27979653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ketabat/pseuds/ketabat
Summary: 3 times billy cries and 1 time someone's there to comfort him.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Everyone, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 14
Kudos: 151





	behind blue eyes

1\. 

The first thing Billy sees when he peels his eyes open is a girl. She’s sitting in a chair beside his bed, sleeping with her cheek squished into the palm of her hand. 

It takes Billy a second, to pinpoint exactly who she is. What she did. He opens his mouth to say her name and closes it once he realizes he doesn’t know it. Can’t say it even if he did. His throat’s too dry. He swallows, clears his throat, then winces at the pressure it puts on the insides of his stitches. 

The girl’s eyes fly open, blink owlish and big. “Billy?”  
  
Billy swallows again to wet his throat. His mouth tastes like a fucking feather duster. “Um. Where am I?”  
  
“Hospital,” The girl responds.  
  
“How—How long?”  
  
“Long,” she replies, terse. “I’m El. Max’s friend.”  
  
Billy nods, closes his eyes again. He’s tired. Tired despite the fuck knows how many days, weeks, _months_ he’s been sleeping. “I know,” he lies. Shudders a breath out.  
  
Her hand’s cold on his, uncurls his fingers to place a piece of metal in. Billy doesn’t need to open his eyes to know what it is. “They were going to throw it away,” El explains.  
  
Billy nods. He hurts all over. Agony licking hot over his insides. His heartbeat feels like an incessant stabbing in his chest. “Can you give me a sec?” he breathes out.  
  
He waits for the click of the door shutting behind her before sagging into the mattress. It takes him a minute to gather enough strength to lift his hand and unfasten the first few buttons of his hospital gown. His fingers are shaky, scarred red and white as they undo the buttons, and.  
  
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting but his face crumples, a sob racking his whole body when he sees what’s become of it. He sits up, ignoring the flare that zips up his spine, runs a hand over the thread weaved into the twisted skin and flesh centering his chest. He can’t breathe. He can’t. He shakes with another sob, and another. Doesn’t stop until his throat feels chafed and his vocal folds give out.  
  


2\. 

There’s fog. And blood. And Heather. There’s Heather. Then there’s blood. Sticking her hair into strings. He looks at his hands, red staining the ring on his middle finger. He looks back up and there’s Heather. _Dead_. He looks around her. Tom and Janet and Adam. There’s Bruce and there’s Doris Driscol and. No. _Billy_. There’s _Billy_. He blinks.  
  
They’re all Billy. And they’re all dead.  
  
Except one. Alive and standing and staring at him. Billy blinks. It’s in front of him a heartbeat later. He lifts a hand. It lifts a hand. He tilts his head and it tilts his head. “Who are you?” Billy asks. His voice rings off the walls. He’s expecting his words to be echoed back at him.  
  
The replica looks down, at Billy’s hands. Billy looks down. There’s a knife. In his hand. In his clone. He looks up, sight bleary. There’s blood. And.  
  
Billy screams himself awake. It’s just a dream. _Just_ a _dream_. He takes a breath. Draws his legs up to his chest and rests his forehead on his knees. “Just a dream,” he whispers. He rocks back and forth, eyes closed. “Just a dream. Just a _fucking_ dream, Hargrove. Man up.”  
  
But he’s crying. His hands clench tight in his hair, so tight the skin on his knuckles feels like it’s about to tear apart. “Get yourself together, Hargrove,” he hisses to himself. “Man up. Man the fuck up,” he tugs, knocks his fist against the side of his head. Needs the tears to stop.  
  
They don’t.  
  


3\. 

He’s not used to being asked how he’s doing every half hour. He’s not used to waking up to laughter in the kitchen, or talking about his day around the dinner table. He’s not used to the back of a caring hand pressing to his forehead to check his temperature or the smell of fresh orange juice when Joyce gives him a glass and explains all the nutrients there are in there.  
  
He’s not used to being listened to or worried about or cared for.  
  
It feels. So wrong. Too wrong. It’s suffocating him.  
  
He feels like a burden. A charity case. A spectral wormhole sucking the happiness out of a family too good.  
  
He’s trying. He just needs to lighten his weight. Make himself scarce when need be until he’s out of Joyce’s hair.  
  
“Did you take your meds, sweetie?”  
  
Billy blinks away from the dishes he’s washing and clears his throat. “Yeah.”  
  
“Good,” Joyce ruffles his hair as she walks past him to the fridge. “Jonathan’s going to do the grocery shopping. Would you like to go with him? Fresh air will do you some good.”  
  
“No,” Billy says blandly. Quieter, he repeats. “No. it’s—fine. No. I could uh. I could help Will with his homework. If he needs any help.”  
  
“Whatever suits you best, Billy.”  
  
“Mom! I’m going!” Jonathan yells out from somewhere in their small house.  
  
“Be careful!” Joyce shouts back.  
  
The door opens but doesn’t close. Something that Joyce picks up on too, brows furrowing and lips upended into a pensive frown. She walks out the kitchen. Stops. “How can I help you?”  
  
Billy keeps his ears with her in case she needs any help but continues to wash the fork in his hand.  
  
“Right, hello. Would I find Billy here?” a gruff voice comes a second later.  
  
Billy’s heart stops. Crawls up to his throat. He drops the fork.  
  
“Who’s asking?” Jonathan asks back.  
  
“Oh, it’s Neil,” Neil’s voice comes floating through the house. Billy takes a deep breath. “His father. I heard he’s been staying with a lovely family. Hope I’m not mistaken?”  
  
Billy licks his mouth and eases the tap shut before walking over, towel in hand. He stops next to Joyce. “You’re not,” he states.  
  
Jonathan half turns to look at Billy. Wary. He knows. Everyone knows.  
  
“Son,” Neil nods at him.  
  
Billy’s jaw clenches. He nods back. Respectful.  
  
“Don’t you think you’ve outstayed your welcome?” Neil questions, smile small and forged from threadbare patience.  
  
Billy blinks, keeps drying his hands until his skin starts burning.  
  
“Billy’s welcome to stay for as long as he wants,” Joyce cuts in. She takes a threatening step closer to Neil. It sometimes slips Billy’s mind that despite her small frame, she’s strong. Strongest fucking woman he’s ever met. “You, however, _aren’t.”_  
  
Neil lifts a brow. “I’m sorry?”  
  
“Sir, we’d appreciate it if you left now,” Jonathan clarifies. “You can have a talk with the chief. It’s that, or we call him over about the restraining order you just violated.”  
  
“Restraining order?” Billy and Neil ask at the same time.  
  
Neil makes to step in but Joyce’s faster, shields Billy with her body. “Mr. Hargrove, I’m asking you nicely,” she says gently. “Leave.”  
  
Neil steps back, glare unwavering from Billy. “You,” he states.  
  
Billy swallows and licks over his mouth.  
  
“Son, you’ll be—”  
  
“Don’t call me that,” Billy whispers out. He swipes his tongue over his lips, tear breathing down his cheek. “…‘M not your son. Stopped being your son the second you lifted a hand to me.”  
  
Neil’s glare deadens, drops altogether. He has the gall to look momentarily guilt-stricken before he turns around and walks away.  
  
Billy uses the towel to dry his tears. He pointedly evades Joyce’s touch when she reaches for him, leaves for his room before he can let another tear loose.

+1

There’s something about Christmas that Billy dreads. Something that has deep-rooted nostalgia lodging itself in his rib cage, tight and suffocating and unabating.  
  
This time, it isn’t nostalgia. It’s this. Feeling that he’s unwelcome. He helped decorate the Christmas tree when he found Joyce standing on her tippy toes to crown it with the big glittery silver star Will had made. He’s a talented kid. She thanked him when he plucked it out of her hands and anchored it well at the peak of the tree.  
  
He sees the box under the tree labelled ‘Billy’. A present meant for him. He doesn’t really remember the last time he got a Christmas present. His cheeks are red when he looks away, occupying himself with his zippo.  
  
The kids are all huddled up, talking about shit Billy can’t hear and doesn’t care for. Jonathan and Robin are sitting a meter away, fighting over some movie while Nancy delicately wraps up a small gift beside them.  
  
Billy looks to Joyce in case she needs help. She’s slapping Hopper’s hand repeatedly with a stirring spoon, ushering it away from the pan. “Stop. Double. Dipping.”  
  
Hopper smirks, says something that Billy thanks _fuck_ he can’t hear. Because Joyce goes red and punches his arm like _there are ‘kids’, hop!_  
  
Then Billy looks at Steve, and. Steve’s looking back. Like he was watching Billy watch everyone and just _waiting_ for his turn _._ Their gazes meet and Billy looks back down, at his zippo, rolls his thumb, watches the flame until it dwindles. He presses his thumb to the eyelet of it.  
  
It doesn’t burn as hot as Steve’s eyes on him.  
  
“Can we open presents before dinner?!” Mike yells out to Joyce.  
  
Billy doesn’t want to be here. The box meant for him has been nagging at a corner of his brain ever since he saw it, and he really, _really_ doesn’t want to be here. He gets up from the chair he’d dragged away anyway, because it’s _rude_ not to mingle. Walks over. Squeezes himself between Robin and Jonathan because the only unoccupied seat is next to Steve and he can’t handle that right now.  
  
“Who goes first?” Lucas calls out.  
  
“Me me me me!” Steve reaches for a box but Dustin slaps his hand away. “Ow. What the hell?”  
  
“Alphabetical order!” Dustin announces. “It’s only fair.”  
  
Joyce rubs her hands together, smiling wide. “Billy!”  
  
“What? No,” Billy answers sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “I um. It’s William.”  
  
He catches Steve’s eye roll and dopey grin.  
  
“Oh my god, he’s blushing,” Robin snorts.  
  
“Me too!” Will lifts a hand up and Billy chuckles, high fiving him.  
  
“I’m the alpha,” he states. “Ok. Uh,” he scratches his cheekbone, right over the silvery scar there. “Gimme.”  
  
Nancy bends forward to look at him over Jonathan and extends the box she’d been wrapping up earlier. “It’s nothing much.”  
  
Billy looks at her as he takes the box. “Let me guess. The last bullet in the gun you shot me with?”  
  
Nancy rolls her eyes. “Let it _go,”_ she’s smiling, contradictory.  
  
He pulls the ribbon loose and gently starts unwrapping.  
  
“This isn’t your date on prom night, kid,” Hopper says gruffly. “Rip it!”  
  
“Hopper!” Joyce exclaims. “Jesus, stop it with the dirty jokes!”  
  
Everyone’s laughing though. Billy included. He uncovers the box and whistles low and tuneful. “Jeez,” he pulls the skull-shaped lighter out. “Damn, Wheeler. Knew you had taste, but this is,” he whistles again, flicks a flame out. “Has me cravin’ a cigarette.”  
  
Nancy sits upright, hands wedged between her thighs and smile wide.  
  
“Thanks,” Billy looks up at her. “It’s,” he looks back down at it, traces his thumb over the antique gold of it. “Yeah. Thanks, doll.”  
  
“Mine next!”  
  
Max hands him a pair of earrings. Feathers. Silver. Really cool. Really _Billy_.  
  
“Silver, since your lobes are sensitive to anything else,” Max explains proudly. Billy almost feels bad about the shirt he bought her – well, not exactly _bought,_ more like _brought,_ from his wardrobe. Because she used to beg him for it all the time. Button up silk. Olive green. She’s gonna lose her shit.  
  
“I didn’t get you anything,” Lucas states.  
  
Billy looks at him. “Just take care of my sister, will you?”  
  
Lucas smirks, nods his head like he doesn’t need to be told.  
  
“Ok,” Joyce speaks up, clapping her hands once. “Just. Before we finish,” she turns to Billy. “You know you’re family now, Billy.”  
  
Billy’s smile falls. A muscle in his jaw begins throbbing as heat fills his cheeks and the tips of his ears.  
  
“And this house is your house,” she leans forward, arms propped on her thighs. “Your home if that’s—”  
  
Billy stands up, the tatters of wrapping paper falling from his lap and to the floor. “I— I just need,” he doesn’t finish that sentence. Just rushes out. Out the living room and out the house and down the porch and he thinks that a walk around the entire fucking world wouldn’t be enough.  
  
“Billy, hey, what’s wrong?”  
  
Billy turns around, ready to explode. “What’s—whats _wrong?”_ He laughs out. “What’s _wrong?_ Steve, tell me which part of what Joyce just fucking said is _right._ ”  
  
Steve takes a step closer, takes it back when Billy steps back. “Billy—”  
  
“No,” Billy interrupts. “No. I can’t. I can’t deal with this. I can’t deal with _having_ this.”  
  
“Having what?”  
  
“Joyce! Joyce and, and _you_ and. Christmas. Fucking presents? I’m sick of this _pity party_ everyone has going on. I’m fucking _fine._ I’m fine and—”  
  
“Pity party?” Steve echoes questioningly, a bit amused despite everything. “No, you know what. The only reason you think we all pity you is because you’re not used to anyone giving a shit.”  
  
“Don’t,” Billy chokes out. “Don’t.”  
  
“So you just assume any act of kindness is ‘cause you nearly died. Ever occur to you that maybe we, oh, _I don’t know_ , actually _care_ about you?” Steve asks. “That _maybe_ you _deserve_ to be cared about after the bullshit you’ve been through?”  
  
Billy wants to curl in on himself. His vision blurs. He wipes his sleeve over his face. His tears feel warm on his cheeks and Steve’s smile is a fixed, gentle thing on his stupid pretty face. It makes Billy choke on a cry, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Could really use a hug right now,” he heaves out.  
  
Steve’s arms are around him not a second later, fingers buried in his hair as he cradles his head to his shoulder. Billy cries harder, says _I’m sorry_ over and over until Steve shushes him, rubbing his hands up and down the length of his back and arm.  
  
Once he calms, Steve’s hands slow down. “Good to go back inside?” he asks quietly.  
  
Billy shakes his head into his shoulder. “Do I have to?”  
  
“I mean,” Steve chuckles lightly, tightening his grip for just a second. “Only if you wanna be kissed under the mistletoe?”  
  
Billy laughs into the wool of Steve’s sweater, nodding. “I’d- yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”


End file.
